Paprika

Chapter Six – Paprika

Supermarkets are curious places.

You go in for butter, yoghurt, or perhaps a missing jar of paprika... and somehow end up collecting stories instead.

In this chapter, Drew reflects on chance encounters, familiar voices, old police memories, shoplifters, supermarket wisdom, and one unforgettable conversation beside the herbs and spices.

A warm and gently humorous reminder that the people we love are never very far away — and that even the smallest lives can leave the biggest stories.

Transcript

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Hello and welcome. Each week I'll be sharing stories, stories drawn from real life, from people I've met and moments I've witnessed. Sometimes remembered as they were, sometimes softened by time, but brought to you with kindness and care. Welcome to Big Skies and Small Ponds. Chapter six Paprika and just a quiet warning, there will be a little adult language during this chapter. I'm not a huge fan of supermarkets. In fact, I refer to our local Tesco as the Temple of Doom. But however I might feel about them, supermarkets are places you find yourself visiting again and again, particularly when the cupboards need replenishing with essentials like butter and cherry. Although lately it's been slightly less butter and slightly more yogurt and chia seeds for yours truly, such as the March of Time and the Battle of the Wasteline. The curious thing about supermarkets though is how much of life you end up observing there. Sometimes you witness rather lovely moments among the celery and radishes. Other times well you see and hear things you rather wish you hadn't. Moments that are eye opening and occasionally jaw dropping. I once overheard two ladies talking as they shopped, and one very clearly said to the other, and I kid you not, so I told him if he starts wanking in Aldi, we're done. As my father so often says, it's all part of life's rich pattern. And telling the stories of life is, I suppose, my business. Oh and incidentally, I've never been back to that Aldi. Many years ago, while I was still a serving police officer, I was shopping in a supermarket in Lincoln. I had my list in my hand and the trolley was actually behaving itself, but I was trying to escape the blasted place as quickly as possible. And then I turned into the freezer section and I bumped into one of my former bosses. His name was Bill. Now Bill had been a terrific boss. Old school in the best possible way. He had authority, but rarely needed to raise his voice. He was respected. He had a certain air to him, and a clipped yet mellow tone when he spoke. He also sported a magnificent moustache. Bill had served as an officer in the Gurkha regiment, I believe. He carried himself ramrod straight, with that quiet but certain dignity you sometimes see in men of that generation. We chatted for a few minutes, then we shook hands and said our goodbyes. But as I walked away, Bill, leaning into the freezer, called after me. Imagine it, he said. After all I've done in life, I'll probably end up dead in a supermarket freezer, reaching for a bag of bloody peas. We both laughed. But it was a thought provoking moment. For all we achieve, all our ambitions, all the things we think define our lives, no matter how great or small, in the end we might still end up dead in a supermarket freezer reaching for peas. Life or perhaps death having the last laugh. And for what it's worth, when my time comes, I rather hope I'm reaching for sherry, not peas. After twenty one years as a funeral celebrant, I've met a lot of people, so it's not uncommon for someone to spot me in the supermarket, smile, and begin walking in my direction. And in that moment your brain hopefully fires into action, searching, searching Who on earth are you? Eventually you settle on the most likely explanation. It must have been a funeral. That's where I meet most people these days. Sometimes the memory is in top form, and a name comes back almost instantly. Other times absolutely nothing. Either way, you have a chat. And I've always thought it's rather nice when someone is pleased to see you, even in a supermarket. Which brings me to paprika. In our household we have a favourite dish which we call orange chicken. Now don't judge, it's rather lovely, especially served with crispy roast potatoes and maybe some tender stem broccoli. But the recipe calls for paprika. Except on this particular day there was no paprika visible on the shelf. Oh there was smoked paprika, and there was even extra hot paprika, but no paprika paprika, if you get my drift. Whilst Mrs. B and I were discussing this tragic absence of Hungarian spice, the man standing next to me joined in our conversation, he too bemoaning the lack of paprika. And after a few minutes he said Where do I know you from? Now I had absolutely no idea. I had no memory of him at all, so I gave my usual response. Perhaps from a funeral, I suggested. And it turned out I had in fact led the service for his father several years earlier. So we chatted briefly about that service and about his dad. I didn't recognise your face, he said, which frankly I find astonishing, given the double chin situation. I often refer to myself as the old fat fella in the scruffy blue suit. It's my celebrant alter ego. But this time it wasn't the face. But it was your voice, he said. I remember that voice. I have to admit I rather liked hearing that. In my radio presenting days someone once described my voice as as familiar and cozy as a favourite old cardigan. I took that as a compliment. The last thing the gentleman said before he left was You're very good at your job. Now this story is becoming dangerously self serving, so we'd better move on. But I did think afterwards how remarkable it was that it wasn't the old fat fellow in the scruffy blue suit he remembered Well, it it was his voice. And in that moment, standing beside the herbs and spices, minus paprika, the story of his father's life came back to him in a supermarket. Because the truth is, wherever we are, we're never more than a thought away from the people that we've loved. Big skies and small ponds with Drew Baxter. From my observations, I've always found that people steal either out of need or greed, although some seem to do it for the thrill. In this next story, I recall crossing paths with some real old prose. A shop thief had been detained by a very zealous and astute store detective. The scourge of shoplifters. She was like a bloodhound. Once she got the scent of a potential thief, she was relentless. When I arrived at the store she led me to the security office, and I saw who she'd collared on this occasion. There sat an elderly gentleman, quite respectable in appearance, indeed the epitome of an old fashioned granddad, in his waistcoat and collar and tie, and wearing a long tan coloured overcoat. A coat which, as it turned out, was something of an engineering marvel because inside it contained pockets, not ordinary pockets, but enormous secret pockets stitched throughout the lining. We began emptying them and out came groceries, tins, packets, vegetables, and eventually a leg of lamb. Now, as police officers we are supposed to remain serious and professional, but there are moments when human ingenuity simply catches you off guard. And I remember thinking at the time, well done that man. His name was Joe, by the way. I remember his full name, but Joe is enough today. I recall other names, other times when someone had been caught stealing, some doing it for the thrill, others for need. There was one time we arrested a young woman and her mother, and it transpired that back at home they had quite the hall of stolen goods. We went to recover them all, but then we discovered that even the clothes that their baby was wearing were stolen and their toys. This was one day when not every stolen item was recovered. From kids caught taking milk from a doorstep through to prolific shoplifters, and even on one occasion catching two men red-handed as they climbed out through the rear window of the library which had been burgling, you saw so much of life. And I often remember thinking that human beings will always find extraordinary ways to navigate the business of life. Some noble and some less so, but always fascinating. There's something else I've come to realise through my work as a celebrant. History books tend to focus on the famous. But most lives are lived quietly, as I like to refer to them small fish in small ponds. Ponds inhabited by people whose stories never make the headlines. But those stories matter. In fact, they might matter the most because even in a small pond you can find the reflection of the vastness of everything that surrounds you. I do hope you've enjoyed what you've heard, and if you have, may I gently invite you to like or even share these stories here on Big Skies and Small Ponds. You'll be very welcome the next time we meet, but until then, enjoy writing and living your own story.